Into the Fire
by AMiserableLove
Summary: Savior. A fate she's been forced to acknowledge, a role she's destined to fulfill—the choice to refuse or accept it had never been hers. Savior. The word feels dirty on her tongue, the letters spelling it out flash in her head tauntingly as the syllables ring in her ears somewhat mockingly. Savior. She was born with the entire fate of a kingdom lying at her feet...


**So this story starts out in Neverland...well into their journey on the island.**

**I'm taking a different approach with this story. For those of you who read my story _Always,_ it's kinda like that—written in snap-shots and jumping from scene to scene. It's helping me with writers block and I really enjoy this style. That being said don't expect the novel type writing style that many of you are used to...while some scenes are extremely detailed many of them are not.**

**Warning: This is a war!time fic. There is going to be violence, sex, triggers and disturbing themes.**

**Also...and I hate doing this, as I think it's a major spoiler but I know I'll be yelled at if I don't, there's a MAJOR character death...as in nearly right off the bat. Also, again, warfic...no one is really safe.**

**That being said, there will be some lighter moments, some interesting relationships, some silver linings and ummm...SMUT?!**

**But seriously...you've been warned. Heed the warnings.**

**Also I'm exhausted...I will edit tomorrow. If you want to wait until it's cleaned up I suggest doing so sometime in the afternoon. If not...ENJOY!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.**

**Please review guys your thoughts and opinions drive me on!  
**

* * *

Savior.

A fate she's been forced to acknowledge, a role she's destined to fulfill—the choice to refuse or accept it had never been hers.

Savior.

The word feels dirty on her tongue, the letters spelling it out flash in her head tauntingly as the syllables ring in her ears somewhat mockingly.

Savior.

She was born with the entire fate of a kingdom lying at her feet.

She was born to ensure that good conquered evil.

She was born a savior.

But at what cost?

* * *

_No, no, no, no! _

Emma repeats the word in her head over and over again like a desperate mantra.

_No._

She can't move, she can barely breathe, her entire body is locked and stiff—her limbs weak and helpless, her lips trembling and numb.

This isn't happening.

No.

_No, no, no, no._

Panic rushing through her fast; her mouth falls open slowly as a violent shudder takes over her entirely—chills wracking her body fast, pricks of dread skitter up her spine as a wave after wave of nausea rushes through her sickeningly.

_Oh God please no._

Eyes flashing to Pan's fallen form, she blinks back the sting of hot tears that threaten to spill over and scald down her cheeks as her gaze shifts from the lifeless demon-child and focuses on the dagger laying next to him—the sharp and pointed tip glistening and wet.

Red.

Deadly.

Dripping.

Blood.

Henry's blood.

_No, no, no, no. _

Feeling her throat tightening—something deep and weighted settling in her gut—Emma shakes her head from side to side. Blinking rapidly; her eyelids flutter fast, her thoughts race, and her heart pounds as her eyes continue to burn hot and unforgiving.

_No._

She refuses to believe what she is seeing, refuses to admit to the fact that Pan had stabbed her son before her very eyes, refuses to acknowledge that she had done nothing to stop him.

Nothing at all.

She had been too late.

Bursting through the trees with Gold at her side, Henry's shouts for help echoing through the night, she had only been able to watch in horror as the poison tipped blade that Pan had held had sunk into Henry's stomach, the sound of Peter's manic laugh echoing in her ears as she had cried out. Falling to her knees and eyes widening in terror, she had tried—to no avail—to talk herself out of what she was seeing as Henry had slid to the ground—a single tear running down his smudged and dirty face.

After that, the rest had been a blur.

Gold had rushed by her, his eyes unfocused and his skin scaly and green—eerily resembling that of a crocodile's—the transformation had been somewhat terrifying and undeniably haunting. Something had simmered in the air, cracking electric and near tangible as an untouchable energy had radiated from the dark wizard in near visible waves—his intent to go after Pan, clear, dangerous and deadly. After months of desperate searching and frantic fighting it had all ended so quickly. From her place on the ground, she had seen a flash, a loud crack had shot through the night, followed by an enraged shout, and then finally, _finally_ a slow and pathetic weak cry. Pan had fallen to the ground, dead at the hands of Gold—the boy's once evil face twisted into an expression that had almost looked relieved…grateful...

_Peaceful._

And Henry…

Henry had laid on the ground, his blood seeping into the dirt and staining the scattered leaves crimson.

Fading.

_Dying._

"Mom."

It's a whisper, a plea, a statement, and it snaps her from her brief and tormented reverie.

"Mom."

He says it again like he believes it…like she deserves it…like he forgives her.

And it tears at her very soul.

Her throat tightening near suffocatingly; something tries to claw its way out of it; the pressure on her vocal chords is almost painful—the sensation miniscule compared to the torture that is currently ripping at her heart.

Henry.

_No, no, no, no._

"Mom."

He says it softly once more, his eyes watery and unfocused as his stare meets hers in a faraway gaze.

He's frightened, and confused and dying.

_Dying, dying, dying.  
_

Henry is dying.

How many times since she had come to Neverland had she been told that no one—man, child, sorcerer, or savior—could survive Pan's poisoned dagger? How many times had she been warned that its deadliness is irreversible...the most potent poison in all the realms.

No medicine can curb it, no magic can heal it, no kiss can stop its lethal fate.

The effects are final.

And now, her son is slipping away, fading from her at the hands of _Peter fucking Pan,_ because she was weak, because she hadn't played the sinister child's game right, because she had found her son too late.

So he's leaving her and there's nothing she can do.

Not a goddamned thing.

She's failed him.

Again.

_Oh God, oh god, oh god. _

Pain.

It's nearly unbearable, the physical, mental, and emotional torment she feels. She can't stand it, she can't survive it. She's not strong enough.

_No._

Her hands, reaching out shakily, falter and then stop for a moment, wavering in the air uncertainly as doubt and indecision clouds her brain. She's afraid to touch him, afraid that if she caresses his pale skin, brushes away his dirty hair, and places her hands over his bleeding wound then that would make it all _real_. She'd have to accept his fate. So instead, for a few brief seconds she hesitates and merely kneels in the mud next to him, her eyes burning and glassy stare at his crumpled body as his curled up form begins to quiver and shake.

_No._

The pressure in her throat finally gives way, and through the roaring in her head and the buzzing in her ears she hears a scream—an anguished and tortured long drawn out shout. Vaguely she acknowledges that it's hers, briefly she notices the hot tears that had been brimming her eyes as they finally break through their barrier and burn and brand her skin—trailing down her cheeks they leave their stamp of grief and misery on her face.

_No._

"Henry." She chokes out his name, once, twice, and then she's moving, crawling through the dirt and gathering him in her arms. Holding his trembling body to her chest, she rocks him back and forth, stroking his hair, and whispering muffled words, broken promises, and soft, tender, too late endearments.

"Mom…Emma…" his voice is raspy, his lips are a frightening shade of bluish gray, and through the noise in her head she can hear a low rattle in his chest.

Shaking her head, vehemently trying to deny what she is seeing, she bites back a distressed sob. "No…shhh shhh shhh…it's okay. It's okay. Hey…kid…hey….I'm here. I'm not leaving you. You're gonna be fine. Just don't talk…we just have to…" Her words trail off as she whispers the assurances into his temple, her lips brushing the clammy skin there as she holds him tighter to her—part of her trying to believe what she's saying, while another part stubbornly tries to open her eyes to the harsh reality of the grim and dark scene before her. "We'll heal you…Gold...he's here...he just needs..." Her gaze drifts to the man in question and her eyes widen as she sees him, standing next to Pan's body, shake his head, his own stare is faraway and unreadable...his expression says what he does not. _He can't save him_. Refusing to accept it, she bites the inside of her cheek until she can taste blood; and focusing on the metallic burn she turns her attention back to Henry, dusting her lips over his head once again. "Hey...hey...you'll be okay. Just—just stay with me."

She can fix this.

She _has_ to fix this.

She's the goddamned savior.

"Can't." his voice has faded to a raspy murmur; the lingering strength in it slowly receding, as a gurgle sounds somewhere deep in his throat. And it's with the bubbled noise that she feels something inside of her begin to crack and break.

_No, no, no, no._

Slowly, she moves her hand to his abdomen, her fingers unsteady and numb press against the gash there, the feel of warm and sticky blood pushing past her fingertips and coating her skin seems almost surreal—the sensation bringing another sob to her lips, as her eyes blur and her vision darkens ominously.

She has to save him.

This is all just one big twisted fairytale.

And she's supposed to be magical.

The fucking product of True Love.

She can save him.

_Oh God._

"Hang on. You need to..let me just...dammit...you…I just…"

"Mom…it's okay. I'm not scared."

"Henry no…"

"I'm not. Just…sleepy. Don't cry...I'm not...I'm..."

She can't listen to him, it hurts too much, physically, emotionally, mentally, she can't take it. She's been beaten, abandoned, abused, and neglected. She's seen death before, experienced it in her own arms, but nothing, _nothing_ compares to the agony she's feeling at the moment. How can someone live through such unbearable unforgiving pain? Unable to grasp the severity of the situation, unwilling to let herself believe what is happening to him in her arms, her lips thin into a deep frown and her breath hitches and catches as she gasps for air.

_Oh God._

She can't do this.

"Emma…Mom…you…you have to promise me something..."

She pulls back slightly at the sound of his voice, the strength in his tone taking her aback a little and giving her a sense of hope that deep down she knows is false and misplaced. And trying to latch onto the feeling, she looks down into his ashen face, immediately regretting the decision when what's left of her breaking heart shatters as she sees the truth in his glazed and dilated eyes. He's almost gone. "Anything…oh God Henry please just stay with me."

"Good…evil…you…" he smiles at her a little, the corners of his lips quirking up just fractionally into a heartbreaking grin, as his eyes focus somewhere over her shoulder. He's so strong, so brave, so good...everything she's not. Suddenly, his chest begins to rise and fall rapidly and the rattling sound in his throat grows louder before the space in between his breaths lingers on uncomfortably long as he almost frantically struggles for air.

"Henry!"

She shakes him a little because she's not ready for this, good God not yet…she's not ready for this yet.

_No, no, no, no._

Snapping his eyes back to hers, for a few drawn out seconds his gaze clears, and recognition crosses his features as he is seemingly granted a moment of brief clarity. "Good always conquers evil. Savior…you're the.._you_ have…to…" Moving his head a little, the action appearing somewhat definitive he gasps as another shudder runs through his body, stealing what's left of his breath for the moment and forcing him to attempt to take another shallow and pained one. "Good has to win...good always wins…you have to make sure."

_So brave, so selfless, so pure. _

"Henry please, please just hold on."

"I'm sorry."

_He's sorry?_

Shaking her head, blowing out a trembling and whimpering breath, she lowers her forehead to his and allows herself to sob…truly and really sob. Dimly she's aware that he has nothing to be sorry for, faintly she recognizes that it is_ she_ who should be apologizing for not being able to save him. But unable to express the words, instead she rocks him. She rocks him like she had never gotten the chance to before...holding him close and embracing him tightly she moves her body back and forth, dimly aware that it's the first and mostly likely the last time she's ever held him like this. His body sprawled across her lap, she can't help but think about all the moments in his life that she had missed out on—the fevers she never chased away, the bad dreams she never got to soothe. Her lips hovering against his cool skin, she cradles him to her body, kisses his cheeks, his hair, his temple and cries like she hasn't in years.

She feels lost.

Completely and truly lost.

"Don't leave me, please don't leave me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Please. Please. Please come back to me. I love you Henry."

Murmuring the pleas over and over again, tears blur her vision as she holds him to her, promising him that she'll never let go, whispering to him that she had made a mistake all those years ago, that she should have never given him up, that he's the one thing that she did right in her miserable life, that she needs him, that she loves him, that she can't do _this_ alone.

He's her son.

He's hers.

Hers.

_No, no, no, no._

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Please come back to me," her voice drops, her tears continue to fall, "please."

It isn't until later, when she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder that she realizes that he's gone—his eyes are closed, his body is cold, his breathing has stopped.

He's dead.

And as the fact registers in her numbed brain, as the gravity of of it settles itself upon her, she let's out an anguished cry, collapses against him, and screams.

She barely feels the wave of magic that bursts from her very core, blanketing the island in a red hue and stirring the dormant pixie dust that laces the ground, causing the island to shake, other worldly portals to open, and the sky to light up in an iridescent and brilliant glow. No, she pays no attention to the magic that has been unleashed around her. Instead she allows herself to fall. Her brain shutting down, her heart irreversibly damaged, and her soul completely destroyed...

She welcomes the darkness that follows.

* * *

There's a low beeping noise coming from a machine near her head. The room is small and white and clean. Her hair feels freshly washed and smells of lavender. There are flowers, bright and colorful, on the small table next to her bed. The sun, yellow and cheerful, is shining through the window to her right.

And Henry is dead.

* * *

Emma screams because there's pain, so much pain. It's hurts. The haunting memories and cruel visions flash before her eyes in unwanted and rapid succession.

_Pain._

It's all she can think, breathe, and feel.

Because she's failed him.

Fail. Fail. Fail.

_Oh God._

There's a tight pressure on her arms; and hazily she wonders if someone is holding her down, vaguely she's aware that she's thrashing somewhat wildly. Her legs kick forward and as her hips thrusts upwards, something crashes to the ground—the sound of glass shattering cracks through the air.

But still, there's pain.

So much pain.

She wants to ignore it, run from it, hide from it.

But it won't go away.

So she screams.

She screams until her throat feels raw and her voice rings hoarse.

She wails her torment, her anguish ripping through her body and clawing at her soul.

Until abruptly, almost surprisingly, there's a shout, a muffled sob, the sound of an argument, a pinch and a numbing sting...

And then suddenly a buzzing quiet.

Her eyes feel heavy, her breathing slows, her heartbeat calms...

Soothing and welcoming darkness.

* * *

Her eyes flicker open.

The haziness gives way to focus and soon her gaze flits up to the face that's hovering over her.

Mary Margaret.

Her eyes are sad; the once resilient light in them is nearly dimmed completely. She's running her fingers through her hair and her voice is calm and soothing and quiet.

And Henry is still dead.

* * *

She's in a hospital…most likely in Storybrooke. Slowly, surely, she's figured that much out. Though how she got there, she's still not entirely sure.

She remembers being in Neverland. She can still see Henry's death, she can still hear his cries—she can almost feel the rush of despair and the shocking burst of magic that had coursed through her before the swift and fast wave of darkness that had followed hit her.

_Blissful and forgiving darkness._

Thinking of it, she closes her eyes once again and embraces the black and empty void once more.

* * *

Her eyes have been open for far too long.

She never stays awake long enough to fully allow her brain to start working. The longer she lets herself stay conscious, the easier it is to remember.

_Henry._

Feeling a tear trickle down her somewhat numb face, Emma lets out a muffled cry, her chest constricting painfully as the whimper gets caught in her throat. Wheezing, panic and alarm creeping up on her, she nearly sighs with relief when a young looking nurse suddenly appears at her side. Kind and sad brown eyes meet hers and in the next instant the anxiety begins to lessen and fade.

Suddenly, gratefully, she feels the haze and promise of sleep

* * *

Mary Margaret is back again. David is with her. Their voices are muted and low—they appear to be pleading with her. Part of her, a part that is buried beneath the rubble of Henry's death, stirs to life, whispering that she should listen. But that part is small and weak and damaged, so instead of paying them any attention she lets her gaze drift upwards, allowing her vision to waver as she stares at the overhead lights.

Quietly she begins to count the cracks on the ceiling, because counting helps to take her mind off upsetting things and right now Mary Margaret and David's visit is upsetting her...

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven..._

_Seven times seven is forty-nine._

_Forty-nine times seven is...is...is..three hundred and forty three..._

_Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve..._

_Twelve times twelve is...is...one hundred and forty-four..._

_Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..._

She can just make out the sound of a stifled sob. But before she can concentrate on it for too long, she's drifting away again in a swirl of numbers and figures and nonsense—away from her parents, away from her memories, away from her failures.

Far away.

* * *

David is sleeping in a chair next to her bed. He's clutching a familiar knitted blanket to his chest, holding onto it so tightly that Emma wonders if he plans on ever letting it go.

Even in sleep his expression appears tortured and weary.

She stares at him for a long moment before closing her eyes once more.

* * *

Neal's eyes are red rimmed and glassy, his fingers, rough and calloused, stroke her limp hand in a gesture that she's sure is meant to be soothing.

His voice sounds hoarse and his words are full of empty promises.

* * *

Her room is dark and the scent of rum and sea lingers in the air.

* * *

Sometimes, when her drugs are beginning to wear off and the doctors and nurses think she's still asleep, occasionally she allows herself a brief moment to listen to them talk. Lately they speak about the same things—their tones worried and undeniably frightened.

_Dark magic, a grieving queen and an evil that is rapidly rising._

Something is coming...threatening to send them all back _home_.

She wonders for a moment, as the words fade into the background of her damaged brain, where exactly home is.

And then, almost immediately, she reminds herself that _lost girls _have no home.

She has nothing.

* * *

Something is happening.

Her eyes flutter open as she hears a shout followed by a loud shuddering bang. A low rumble sounds and her entire bed shakes for a moment as the ceiling rattles threateningly above. The lights are flickering intermittently, small cracks are running down the walls, and the floor looks less than stable as her gaze sweeps across her small and wavering room. People are gathered around her bed, their voices are frantic, and hushed and concerned.

Some faces she recognizes, some she's not so sure about.

But it might be the drugs.

The drugs cloud her mind.

The drugs make her forget.

She wishes she had more drugs.

She feels too aware. The pressure in her chest is beginning to hurt and there are whispers in her head that are starting to get too loud and too demanding for her liking.

Faintly she sees a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Mary Margaret is suddenly by her bed and Emma can see that she's been crying again. She's always crying. Always so upset. She needs drugs. But not hers. _No._ Emma needs her drugs...Mary Margaret can get her own.

Drawing her wavering focus back to her mother, she watches her mouth move rapidly and she can't help but notice how scared she seems—her blue eyes are round and terrified and imploring. But even though she looks unbalanced and more than a little anxious, her voice is soft and firm and steady. The gentle sound gives her a headache—the dull pain creeping up on her even as she tries to shake it away.

"Emma..."

She attempts to tune her out, but Mary Margaret is being more insistent than normal and soon enough she's forced to listen to her confusing and strange rambling words. From what she can make out, she's speaking of Henry's death in Neverland and Regina not being able to control her grief and pain. She's enacted another curse to take them back to the Enchanted Forest, to make them pay...

And hearing it all Emma can't help but cringe.

She deserves to pay.

She deserves to suffer.

"Emma you have to wake up...there's not much time...it's coming...it's nearly here...we need you sweetheart. Wake up honey it's going to take us soon."

Somewhat abruptly her breathing hitches in her throat, and her heart begins to pound near painfully against her chest—the beat and distant thuds echo in her ears.

_Henry._

He had always wanted to go to the Enchanted Forest.

_Fairytale Land._

She shakes her head violently at the thought, her breaths drawing in shorter and shallower; dimly she's aware that the gasping and raspy noises she hears are coming from her.

"Emma?"

It hurts.

She wants it all to go away.

Far, far, away.

"Emma snap out of it! Please wake up!"

When a nurse rushes in, looking nearly as frazzled as Mary Margaret and considerably more frightened, she practically weeps with gratitude when she sees the other woman reach for her IV.

"No...no more." Mary Margaret's words are definitive, her tone unwavering; and hearing it Emma wants to curse her out, wants to scream and yell and cry foul.

She needs her medicine.

But the nurse, the same one that's been with Emma since her foggy mind put two and two together and came up with the conclusion that she was indeed in Storybrooke, merely shakes her head sadly and leaning over, she whispers something in Mary Maragaret's ear—her words are hushed and low, her tone soft and apologetic.

For a moment, she sees Mary Margaret's resolve waver, for a few brief seconds she feels hope; watching closely as something that looks like regret and mirrors her own feelings of failure flashes over her mother's features before her eyes meet hers.

"Okay." she whispers softly to the nurse at her side, nodding her head once. "Okay."

And because something inside of her is stirring, threatening to surface, Emma allows herself to hold Mary Margaret's eyes, —a brief moment of clear cohesiveness brightening her gaze—before quickly she refocuses her attention on the nurse, feeling the edges of her mind begin to dim once again.

Relief.

Sweet relief is coming.

This time when the darkness washes over her and she allows herself to sneak off to that corner of her brain where she can hide from everything; she begs, wishes, prays that she won't wake up again…that she'll stay in that empty and protected place forever.

She means it.

"It's time Emma..."

* * *

The room she wakes up in is chilled, but the heavy blanket that's been placed over her is warm. Something is different. She can feel it in the air. But tired, weary, and broken she merely burrows further into her bed and closes her eyes once more.

* * *

They speak of war.

She hears them whispering in hushed tones.

When they aren't checking on her, bathing her and feeding her bitter liquids laced with strong and potent drugs, she listens to their frightened tones and lazily tries to place their concerned voices.

_War._

The threat is real, an evil is rising.

* * *

She's still not exactly sure where she is, part of her really doesn't care, though words of The Enchanted Forest and a terrifying curse echoes in her brain.

Dimly she hears a familiar voice speaking to her about good conquering evil, faintly she feels the beginnings of fear stir.

* * *

It's starting to take longer for the potions to take effect and Emma finds the fact both frustrating and telling. The time in between her clouded haze has grown farther and farther apart and she finds herself awake more often than not, staring blankly at the walls around her, waiting for someone to come and put her out of her conscious suffering.

Sometimes she wishes they'd fuck up the dose.

She assumes if she took too much of a good thing than maybe just maybe she'd be put out of her misery once and for all.

And as a mop of brown hair, trusting hazel eyes, and a familiar young face flashes before her eyes she only feels slightly guilty.

But only slightly.

* * *

Waking up with a start; the sights and sounds of Neverland fading with her awareness, she hastily wipes at the tears streaking her face and pushes aside the guilt that gnaws at her conscious. Her eyes scanning the darkened area before her, she lets her gaze linger on the fire on the opposite side of the room—the embers glowing a soft and warm orange.

The air feels different.

A familiar scent, one that reminds her of the ocean—crashing waves and whipping winds—hovers above her. And for a moment she can see piercing blue eyes and the quick tilt of a smirking mouth. Sinking down under her thick blankets she cowers for a moment, curious if her mind is playing tricks on her.

* * *

The nurse with kind brown eyes still visits her.

Only now she has different clothes. Her scrubs and comfortable looking footwear have been replaced with a simple cream blouse and a loose and flowing brown skirt. She wears a red scarf in her long dark hair and her demeanor is slightly more nervous than before but still soothing nonetheless.

Her name is Anna.

Emma never speaks to her; still craving her much needed drug induced cloud she finds it easier to stay quiet during her visits, keeping her mouth shut and merely waiting for her to slip the familiar pale powder into her drink before she leaves. But even as she stubbornly remains quiet, hanging onto her silence, Anna speaks to her, chatting away as if they're close friends having a two-sided conversation.

She doesn't tell her anything that Emma hasn't already figured out on her own...mostly she talks about the weather and the food she's brought her. Occasionally she'll speak of a young man named Tristan who sometimes works in the kitchens, her cheeks flushing pink and her eyes dipping down to the floor every time she mentions his name.

Today is different though.

Today she speaks of the impending war, of the atrocities she's already seen, of her fears and concerns—there's a sadness in her tone, a touch of defiance in her eyes.

Her hands swiftly working through Emma's freshly washed hair, and fixing it into a thick braid, she hears her sigh from her place behind her, the sound so soft and quiet that she almost misses it.

"You have to be wondering...when they're clear, I can see the questions in your eyes Emma..." her words trail off slowly and Emma stiffens her spine and listens closely as Anna takes in a deep breath, almost as if she's debating continuing—hesitantly she acknowledges the part inside of her that hopes she does. "We're at Lord Worthington's manor...he was a good man...loyal to the throne even during this land's darkest days. The grounds were untouched by the original curse and are currently enchanted with a cloaking spell to keep us hidden from the queen's wrath. The manor serves as a safe house for many and a training camp for new recruits." She pauses a moment, her words hanging in the air briefly before she sucks in another breath and somewhat determinedly continues on."Runners go out nearly every day...bringing men and woman and children to the estate." Her hands stilling in her hair, Emma's nearly tempted to turn to her and silently encourage her words, her brief explanation awakening a curiosity inside of her that she wants to both stifle and explore. "Some of the new soldiers are so young. God Emma...it's scary. They look like babies...seeing them holding a sword...it's sickening...and wrong...and..." the bed shifts behind her and finally giving into the urge and allowing the action Emma turns her head, watching as Anna gathers her things quickly before placing her drug laced cup of water on the table at her side. "I've probably said too much...anyway, we're safe for now. We have many skilled and talented warriors on the grounds...the manor is also currently housing most of the royal guard as well the prince and princess...as always they hope to see you for dinner..." she hesitates her words cutting off awkwardly as she looks at her like she wants to say more.

And tensing further Emma realizes that she _wants_ her to, her interest has been piqued, and while she wishes that it wasn't she can't help the unwanted feeling. Something inside of her has shifted with Anna's words—whispers, reminders, and forgotten memories are threatening to emerge from the dark and protected place in her broken mind.

_Good always wins._

A glimmer of anger shining in her eyes, Anna stares at her for a moment longer—studying her, reading her—before closing her mouth quickly. Her lips thinning tightly she shoots her an indecipherable look, and then turning on her heel she walks towards the heavy wooden door at the far side of her room and pulls it open, murmuring a soft goodnight as it closes behind her.

It isn't until she's left the room, after she's downed her water and settled back against her pillows that Emma realizes with slight wonder and a small amount of disbelief that the prince and princess that Anna had casually mentioned are Mary Margaret and David.

* * *

"Emma…we can't keep you like this forever…it's not right. Sooner or later you're going to have to wake up and face—face what's happened. And when you do, I'll be here for you. David and I both will be."

She likes when Mary Margaret strokes her hair, it's soothing and familiar—her touch is gentle and her voice is always soft and light. Her one time friend visits her nearly every night, most mornings, and some afternoons; and her presence is usually comforting when she's not tentatively trying to coax her out of her hazy stupor. Staring at the flames crackling in the fireplace across the room, Emma silently tries to tune her out as she drones on about her fragile state of mind, wary of the way her throat tightens fractionally as Mary Margaret's plea-filled words sink in slowly, penetrating the drug induced barrier that has numbed her emotions and weakened her thoughts.

She's not ready.

She's not sure if she'll ever be.

"There's a war coming…and-and I don't think we can win it without you. Please…"

_War.  
_

It's all she hears anyone talking about lately, the whispers drifting up from the floors below and filtering down from the rooms above

_Deadly. Brutal. War._

The final battle.

_Good vs evil.  
_

Suddenly tired of the dark and depressing words, and unwilling to listen to them any longer, she turns her head away while blinking back the hot prick of tears; dimly wondering if those around her are still stupid enough to actually believe her a savior.

* * *

_Three months._

Earlier in the day she heard a young girl and her older companion speaking quietly as they delivered her a tray of food.

It's been three months months since Regina had enacted the curse.

Three months since the residents of Storybrooke had been picked up and unceremoniously dropped back down in the Enchanted Forest.

Three months since they've been forced to live a lifestyle almost long forgotten.

_Three months._

Staring up at the ceiling, Emma wonders how much longer it'll be until Regina comes for her.

* * *

Lately she's taken to moving about her room.

She still doesn't speak—sometimes she wonders if she even remembers how, but then she'll wake up crying out Henry's name and quite suddenly she's bitterly reminded that indeed she does remember.

Her short walks aren't really a big deal, at least not to her. It's more out of sheer boredom than anything, her legs, wobbly and weak, practically weep with relief the first time she stumbles out of her bed on her own.

Curious at first, she moves about the room, fingering the small objects—delicate statues, ancient looking books, unfamiliar portraits—that have been placed on the tables and walls that decorate her quarters, taking in the intricate details of the dark and grand furnishings around her as she gains control of her unsteady limbs again.

It feels good to move.

Her body unused to being dormant for such a long period of time slowly regains its sense of balance.

She can tell by the way Mary Margaret smiles at her and Anna studies her closely that this small step is considered progress.

* * *

There are voices outside of her room.

Standing near the window that overlooks the sprawling grounds, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric of the heavy drapes that adorn it, Emma turns at the sound, her eyes focusing on her slightly ajar door as the voices grow louder, threatening to turn into heated shouts.

She can hear David rather clearly—his words a low rumble—and as she squints across the room and focuses past the door she can just make out the shapes of Leroy standing next to Mary Margaret—their stances appear defensive almost as if they're preventing someone entry.

And she realizes with slight wonder and some disbelief that it isn't_ their_ voices that have caused her body to go somewhat numb and has made her blood run cold even as her heart pounds painfully hard against her chest in rapid and unrelenting beats.

No, the voice that stands out the most, even riled up, is smooth as silk and heavily accented.

When in Neverland she had quite often ignored that voice, grown to despise that voice, and then, eventually, had come to trust it.

"Bloody hell! _Enough_. If you can't do it than I will!"

Her door is pushed open hard, the heavy wood banging against the wall behind it and echoing loudly throughout the otherwise silent room and Emma can feel her eyes widen in shock as Hook storms in. He's shed his long leather coat and pirate attire and instead wear's thick black pants, and what appears to be a dark silver armored shirt—_chainmail_—there's a sword at his side and an odd looking metal shield practically clings to his back. He looks as if he's about to run into battle and watching as he clenches his fist, his eyes fierce and violent finding hers immediately, Emma wonders if perhaps that's what he's doing—his anger clearly directed right at her as fury radiates from him in near tangible waves.

He appears to be absolutely seething.

"Oh, well, so the princess has decided to drag herself out of bed today has she?" He practically purrs the words, his sharp brows rising high on his forehead, as his good hand relaxes and rests on the hilt of his sword.

"Killian…" Mary Margaret's tone holds a warning as she follows him in, her eyes concerned and wary snap to Emma's— curiosity and apology both lingering in her stare.

It takes Emma a moment to register and place the name her mother murmurs.

_Killian. _

"Apologies your highness but I believe your daughter's days of resting comfortably while the lot of us risk our life and limbs are over."

"I don't believe that's your call to make Jones." David speaks up quietly but surprisingly his tone lacks the venom it usually holds when directed towards the calculating and defiant man.

"Now you see, prince, I believe that's where you're wrong….for far too long she's been catered too. The war has been underway for weeks..._months_...now. Your people have been fighting, fighting and dying while she stays in here comfortable as ever, resting on her sodding bed of fine silks and…"

"That's enough."

It's a new voice that breaks the tension, and shooting her gaze behind Hook, turning his cruel words over in her too clear mind, Emma's eyes shift with some surprise to Neal—his expression is pained and his stare is shooting daggers at the pirate as Hook slowly walks into the room, making his way towards her and causing her to she take a tentative step back. And as her back hits the hard wall behind her, faintly she hears an angry voice in her head, something inside of her protesting her obvious show of weakness as she cowers to the man who is slowly and deliberately stalking her.

"Baelfire how kind of you to join us…we were just…."

"You were just bullying a sick woman. I said that's enough…she doesn't need this."

"Like hell she doesn't. I repeat, there's a war going on and people are dying. People are fighting for a kingdom that like it or not she is very much apart of….her son was very much apart of."

At the mention of Henry, her gaze flies back to his—turbulent sea and stormy sky colliding as their stares lock briefly.

"People are dying Emma."

Shaking her head, she makes a move to leave, unsure where she's plans on going as she's never been outside the confines of her room, but before she can attempt to escape him and the prying eyes of the people who have gathered behind him…Mary Margaret, David, Neal, Leroy…he snakes a hand out fast and grabs her arm, pulling her towards him with a snapping and jerky tug.

"Dammit Swan you're stronger than this!"

She wants to fight him, she wants to shake him off and knock him to the ground and kick him while he's down; but her time spent wasting away in bed has made her undeniably frail, and instead she's left weakly attempting to push him away—her breathing coming out in short and shallow bursts as she presses trembling fingers to his unyielding chest.

Ignoring her resistance, he simply drags her closer, the strength and hardness with which he yanks her towards him bringing a whimper to her lips even as red fury clouds her brain. "Henry thought you were stronger than this! He had faith in you. What do you think he'd say if he saw you like this? Feeble and weak and still mourning his death months later as the rest of us risk our lives to stop the misplaced cruelty and vengeance wrought down upon countless innocents by his less sane…" He pauses, seemingly searching for words before cursing under his breath and heaving an exaggerated sigh, "whatever the bloody hell Regina was to him. Dammit Emma, he believed in you!"

"SHUT UP!"

Her voice cracks through the air, raspy and hoarse, and as it rings out she can hear Mary Margaret audibly gasp as the sound of Leroy swearing quietly whispers in the air. Dimly, she realizes with some misplaced sense of fascination that David is holding Neal back, his eyes wide and curious are studying her and Hook intently and she can't help but wonder what has shifted in their relationship that David hasn't turned Neal loose and immediately lunged for Hook's throat himself.

"Emma…"

Hook's voice, velvet and soft, rips her focus back, and replaying his jarring accusations in her head, she feels her body begin to violently shake. "You don't get to say his name. You don't get to judge me." She croaks the words out, her throat scratchy and raw—her lips dry and parched.

"There's a war Emma."

"I don't give a damn!"

"Well you bloody well should! Your son trusted you to do what is right!"

"No!" She screams it, the word ripping up from her very core and tumbling through her protesting throat. And pushing against him with all of the dwindling strength she has, she practically bounces off of him and nearly falls backwards as she loses her balance and stumbles away. "No!"

"Open your goddamned eyes!"

"No!"

"This bloody kingdom needs you."

"I don't owe this kingdom shit!"

"You're failing him!"

It's like a slap in the face, a cold and unforgiving bucket of water.

And she hates him at that moment.

Hates him more than she's ever hated anyone in her entire life. Hates him because he's cruel and ruthless. Hates him because he couldn't possibly understand. Hates him for saying Henry's name like he's worthy of it. Hates him for making her remember.

Hates him because he's right.

"Get out!" She yells it; her tone shrill, her eyes blurred and crazed. "Get out, get out, get out!" Turning from him, she brushes by and seeing the anguished looks on the faces of those gathered before her, she suddenly snaps.

_No, no, no, no._

She whimpers.

She screams.

She wails.

She falls.

A heaping sobbing mess on the cool stone floor she bends over, collapses into herself and cries like she hasn't in days, weeks, months. She cries like she hasn't since the day she had lost Henry…

Since the day she had failed him.

_Fail. Fail. Fail._

And as Hook's words ring in her ears, speaking of the son who had been so brave and true, bringing her failures to light all over again, she feels the deep wounds in her heart open up once more as something hot and burning tears at her soul.

She's losing him all over again.

She can hear his desperate words, she can feel his intense conviction, she can see his unwavering belief.

And it hurts.

It hurts too much.

Thrashing somewhat wildly when Hook's eyes narrow, and he makes a move to touch her, she crawls away, yelling up at him and shouting for him to leave, to go away, to never show his goddamn face again—her normally unused voice, cracking and breaking with the tiring effort.

He doesn't listen, instead he shuffles towards her and crouches low and looking her straight in the eye, he holds her watery gaze—the sound of Mary Margaret pleading to them and David finally moving to action barely discernible as Hook extends his hand.

"You are stronger than this."

His words fall flat—his show of support meaningless.

She screams again. Lunging forward, she tackles him, clawing her nails down his face and feeling some sick sense of satisfaction when she sees the angry red welts and bloodied streaks ripping across his skin. The sound of his surprised grunts and the feel of his hook and hand bracing her flailing arms only briefly registering before fading entirely as she continues to try to attack him, ignoring the shouts and frantic flurry of action behind her as she howls her pain and delivers blow after weak blow on his barely resisting form.

"I will kill you, you son of a bitch! I will kill you! You are nothing! Nothing! I will kill you! Don't you ever say his name again! Ever! I will kill you! Just—just stay away from me!"

Something strong and hot burns deep inside of her, a sleepy energy threatening to roar to life as warmth sparks at her fingertips, hinting at the possibility of undiluted magic and promising sweet revenge.

She feels strong, powerful, until quickly, suddenly, the feeling fades and she's left with nothing but her grief.

When Anna rushes in, pushing the bodies that have crowded around her away, her gentle and soothing voice barely breaks through the noisy shouts and accusations that are ringing in her head.

She 's spiraling out of control fast.

_Falling, falling, falling._

Dimly she feels soft hands on her wet cheeks; vaguely she registers the sensation of the burning anger ebbing as something cool and wet is placed at her lips, a bitter and welcoming liquid slithers down her throat and almost immediately a sense of calmness overtakes her body.

_Falling._

Later as she quietly lays in bed, listening to the pounding rain outside hammering against the manor walls while watching the roaring fire leap and crackle and burn, she can't help but acknowledge the part of her that is steadily flickering to life, forced to unwanted awareness as the gravity of the world she's been thrust into finally sinks in.

* * *

Staring at the high vaulted ceiling, the effects of the potion Anna had given her finally fading, Emma vows to herself that she'll never hate a man more than she hates Killian Jones.

His taunting voice whispering in her ears, his accusing eyes flashing in her head...

_She hates him._

The tingle in her brain whispers lie, but the hardening of her heart claims it's true.

* * *

Emma walks the manor grounds, the sky is gray and the temperature is cool. It feels like late fall and by the way the mud crunches beneath her feet, the scent of pine lingers, and the leaves filter to the ground she believes her guess to be fairly accurate.

The fresh air feels good on her pale skin.

The sun is bright to her sensitive eyes.

As they walk, Anna murmurs words of encouragement to her, her hands fiddling together nervously as she chats idly, all the while steering her away from the prying eyes of the busy people that move across the property as she discreetly herds her in the opposite direction from where the new recruits are currently training.

The sounds of swords clashing and shouted curses echoing throughout the estate, adrenaline, blood, and fear lace the air.

The war is coming closer.

* * *

"I'd like to help out."

She has to give Mary Margaret credit, the jug of water she'd been holding shakes dangerously in her hands; but not a drop splashes over the cup she refills as her words break through the silence that had fallen over them after Mary Margaret had finished delivering her slightly trivial news—discussing a few new horses that had been brought in, as well as some much needed medical supplies from a nearby tiny village.

It still amazes her, the way the once barren and deserted Enchanted Forest is rumored to be bustling with people—villages and towns apparently popping up everywhere as the land divides itself and the people align themselves with whichever side they believe to be the best option.

Turning her attention to her water, she waits for Mary Margaret to respond to her statement—her drinks are pure now, the laced potions having recently dwindled off until eventually they had stopped altogether. And while she had spent many nights shaking in bed, writhing and sweating with her withdrawal symptoms—the sound of Anna's soft voice soothing her, the feel of gentle hands comforting her— she had never mentioned it to Mary Margaret...and her mother had never commented about it to her.

Breaking her little habit had apparently, through some unspoken agreement, been silently decided upon between the two of them.

And she was glad for it.

Her mind clearer and more stable...she felt balanced, more focused...the need to make good on her promise to Henry growing stronger with each passing day.

"Oh?"

"Something simple…I'm not ready to…" she pauses, her eyes avoiding the curious blue stare directed towards her as she falters with her words. "I'm not ready for much because…well...I'm just not ready yet…but I'd still like to do something to help."

Mary Margaret's smile is quick, the tears in her eyes obvious. "Of course."

* * *

The kitchens are her favorite place to work, which is strange because back in the _real world_ she couldn't cook for shit.

The women there generally leave her alone and the men don't dare look at her. She doesn't spend much time trying to dissect the latter observation but a part of her can't help but wonder if David had pulled some kind of over-protective parenting bull before she had begun her duties—it's odd and more than a little suspicious the way anything with penis seems to stiffen and falter in her presence.

Emma spends her days covered in flour, kneading dough, and standing in front of a stifling wood burning oven—her hair, tied back tightly, sticks to her neck with sweat, curling and frizzing as she hovers near the hot and open flames. Generally she ignores the talk of the on-going war. Unsure if she's ready to hear the vicious details of the battles already fought, she works hard at the jobs given to her while silently trying to convince herself she's doing her part.

Idly, she wonders if she'll ever get used to it—this simple and surreal life. Her clothes, a faded long skirt, a fitted blue lace-up tunic, and soft and sturdy boots, remind her of some kind of peasant attire from a Tudors era movie, and the conversations that tend to take place around her are so out of her comfort zone that sometimes she needs to pinch herself to make sure it's all real—almost certain she'll wake up in a hospital with running water and electricity in over abundance.

She doesn't miss the way that people stare at her. Often she hears the term _Savior _whispered behind her back. And she can't help but notice, how many times, the word is spoken with scorn and contempt and mild disbelief.

She doesn't blame them though; she supposes she'd be rather upset too, if the one person believed to save the entire kingdom, had set to work baking bread, and frosting cakes.

Still, she can't bring herself to care.

_Much._

* * *

"Tell me what happened…after Neverland."

Mary Margaret visits her in the kitchens whenever she has some free time. It still shocks Emma, the pixie like woman's drastic transformation. The meek school teacher from Storybrooke and the doting mother in Neverland have almost completely faded, replaced by a fierce and formidable warrior.

"What would you like to know?" she asks carefully, picking up a fresh apple and playing with it idly, her bitten-down nails scratching it's shining red skin.

"What happened to Regina…how did..." Emma waves her hand around her somewhat frustratingly, gesturing to the manor and hinting at what lays beyond it, "_this_...how did this all happen."

Breathing in deeply, apparently taking a moment to consider her question, Mary Margaret places the fruit back on the flour covered table. Leaning over, her elbows resting on the hard surface, white powder now coating her already dirty clothes, she stares her right in the eye—her gaze searching and somewhat penetrating as Emma methodically pounds the dough in front of her, never glancing away.

It's almost as if she's trying to see if she's strong enough to handle her answers, searching her gaze to see if the broken and weak-minded woman still exists.

_She does._

She's just hiding her as best as she can.

"After Henry…" her mother pauses, her lips turning down for a moment as she shakes her head slowly—pain flickering across her tight and somewhat tired looking features. "After Henry died, something happened. You…you unleashed something strong…powerful. I've never felt such raw energy before Emma. The land shifted and changed and the pixie dust that littered the ground practically came to life, stirring and moving and taking shape before our eyes. It all happened so fast really. One moment you were laying over Henry's body, Regina was staring at the two of you as still as a statue and the next there was a portal open. Gold mentioned something about how you had done it without realizing it, but we didn't have much time for any further explanation…everything was so unbalanced it felt as if the entire island was collapsing inside itself. We grabbed you, Henry, gathered our group, and leapt."

Her fingers digging into the dough, Emma turns her words over in her head, trying to conjure up the memory but only seeing despairing shades of black and gray—muffled voices whisper in her head as a blur of images fade before her eyes.

"We ended up in Storybrooke…you…you were unwell so we took you to the hospital. And um, I guess, we kept you there because you weren't…" trailing off she shoots her an apologetic smile, the atmosphere tense and uncomfortable, as they both seemingly recall her stay in the hospital with different but no less depressing memories.

"It's okay." Emma whispers, carefully acknowledging her manic and mental breakdown as she gives a quick nod. "It's okay. Just tell me what happened after that."

"Something changed that day in Neverland. Gold's powers decreased…he became a shadow of the former wizard he once was...he's almost weak now, it's like everything was sucked from him, all his magic was nearly completely drained. Regina was a different story. It was like she had fed off of whatever had happened, her magic seemed more…_powerful_...stronger. The first few days after we were back she walked around the town almost as if nothing had happened. She didn't even show up at Henry's burial."

Her words hit Emma straight in the gut, the simple realization that her son hadn't had either of his mothers at his graveside a sickening thought...the fact that there is no tombstone for her to visit in this new land even more depressing.

"It was as if everything about her was immaculate and in place and there was this dark glow around her…it was scary." Picking up the apple again, Mary Margaret stares at it hard, her eyes narrowing and the clear blue darkening fractionally. "We tried you know. To comfort and console her. But she refused to accept our help. She made it known that she blamed us for what happened to Henry…that she planned revenge, and seeing how dark and powerful she was, I didn't doubt her intent. After awhile, she didn't keep her new curse a secret. She flaunted it around town, mocking the people and hinting at when she'd activate it.. She thrived off of everyone's fear and confusion. She actually started building her army before the curse ever even took affect. People were frightened and easily swayed. To be honest..." Clearing her throat, she straightens her shoulders her hard gaze meeting Emma's. "At first I was surprised she didn't try to go after you. She was so angry and violent and you were virtually defenseless. We had Gold and Blu—err—Mother Superior place a protective spell around you and the hospital with their combined magic but I think she could have broken it if she had really wanted to."

Rolling the dough aside, Emma looks up at that, Mary Margaret's dark words giving her a dull and thumping headache. "Then why didn't she?"

Tears cloud her eyes and a tremble quivers at her lips before she answers, her voice low and soft echos her pain. "She blames us for what happened to Henry, Emma. She truly believes we're somehow at fault. Killing you while you were unaware wouldn't have been enough. She wants to break us, she wants us strong and hopeful and resistant. She wants us to fight so that when she has us within her grasp...she can crush us and then truly enjoy her revenge."

It's fucked up.

But a dark part of her perks up at Mary Margaret's words, after all, she understands Regina's feelings of pain and loss...of anger and despair.

It's fucked up…but it makes sense.

Cruel, unnecessary, callous, sense.

"Emma…since Neverland, since you've woken up and started feeling better…"

"I don't." she interrupts Mary Margaret before she has the chance to stop herself, her voice coming out clipped and harsh as her words send a prickle of annoyance dancing down her spine.

"What?"

"I don't feel better…everyday I wake up the same as before…empty and broken. I'm not healed, I'm not better, nothing has magically been fixed Mary Margaret.…I'm merely surviving…I'm simply trying to do what…what he…." her voice wavers and cracks as Henry's face flashes before her eyes—trusting and innocent—and for a moment she's terrified she's going to crumble and cry. Too many people have seen her break, she won't allow another person, friend or foe, to see her so weak. "I'm trying, _for him_. But I'm not better…I'm pretty sure I'll never be...but I'm taking it slow and I'm trying."

"Of course." Her mother looks thoroughly admonished. Her eyes filled with regret, her features pinched and drawn, her hand twitches slightly, almost as if she wants to reach out to her, almost as if she's tempted to pet her and soothe her as she had before...when drugs had kept her numb and compliant. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to imply…."

"Forget it." Shaking her head, Emma glances back down at her work-station, her heart thumping painfully slow against her chest, as her throat narrows and her fingers tremble. "What were you saying before?"

There's a heavy and tense silence between them before, glancing over her shoulder at the women working only a few feet away, pretending not to listen, she continues on, her voice lower, her eyes searching. "Your magic…is it still there? Neverland seems to have effected the three of you somehow—Gold's powers have weakened so much and Regina's have grown. Seeing as though you seem to be the source of the magic that got us home…have—have you felt anything since then?"

Remembering back to the night when Hook had confronted her in her room, spitting accusations around and invoking Henry's memory as he had attempted to get through to her, she can almost feel the hot energy that had sparked deep inside of her, skittering through her body and threatening to shoot out of her fingertips in a burst of pure power.

She had only felt such undiluted energy a few times in her life...

When she had broken the original curse, when Cora had tried to take her heart, when she and Regina had saved the town, and directly after Henry had died in Neverland.

Something whispers inside of her that it's still there, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked and unleashed.

_Savior_, a voice taunts in hissing tones.

"No…no I haven't felt anything at all.

* * *

"Tristan leaves tomorrow."

Glancing up from where her eyes had been locked, staring at the flames as they licked hotly against the burning logs, Emma shifts on her place on the ground where she's resting against the foot of her bed. Shooting her gaze to Anna, she watches as the younger woman mends a torn shirt—her hands are steady and quick, her voice wavering and small.

It takes her a moment to place the name, probably longer than it should, and suddenly remembering how fondly Anna had spoke of the man who occasionally works in the kitchens, she sits up a little straighter, her voice soft as she encourages more information from the seemingly distraught girl. "Where's he going?"

Looking up at the question, Anna frowns; her black hair is a tangled mess of curls around her face and her brown eyes are glassy with tears—the pain swimming behind them is practically undeniable. They're not friends, not truly. Anna had merely taken care of her when she was incapable of taking care of herself, and Emma can't help but think her visits come more from a sense of duty than want. They rarely talk about anything significant, but still, somehow, the young nurse is one of the closest people to her. And seeing her so upset, Emma can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her—something clenching deep in her gut as she takes in the brunette's expression of unmasked despair.

"Captain Jones and the werewolf have been dispatched with a mission, they're moving a small band up North, Tristan has been training with that unit and he's set to go with them. Fighting there is said to be brutal…the queen's men are rumored to be nothing short of barbaric…they burned an entire village to the ground just last week…nearly everyone died in the flames…and those who didn't more than likely wished they had. Especially the women. The healing tents have been flooded lately…when I made my rounds the other day…my God Emma...you should have seen some of the injuries coming in." Her fingers pausing in her work, Emma watches as she draws her lower lip into her mouth, chewing on it nervously—her eyes faraway as she stares off into the distance. "I think I'd rather be dead than face the abuse that some of those poor girls had to endure. No woman should ever have to…" she trails off for a moment her words breaking off on a sad sigh.

Sickened by the implications, Emma turns away from her, even as the younger girl pays her no attention and continues on, her stomach churning threateningly as Anna paints vivid and unwanted visions of bruised and battered bodies damaged by the war—woman who had lost everything and children who had never stood a chance.

_Regina. _

For a moment she can't believe the woman is truly capable of causing such unnecessary pain…but as her mind wanders to the countless tales she's been told…she wonders if perhaps she hadn't given her thirst for power and her knack for cruel games enough credit.

She wonders what Henry would think.

After Anna leaves her for the night—a small nearly apologetic smile gracing her lips as she pulls the door closed behind her—Emma tucks her blankets tightly around her chilled body, thinking of innocence lost while pensively wishing for peace.

* * *

"You were a good mom." Neal sips the drink in front of him, his eyes roaming the great hall as dinner is served and a crowd forms in front of the food tables; woman and children first, the noise from the people gathered buzzes into a hum of mindless chatter.

They have a strained relationship, her and Neal. They're not friends, they're definitely not fucking, she's not entirely sure what they are or why he even attempts to seek her out. Their conversations never end well and the doubt and worry that mask his eyes is more than a little annoying.

"Henry loved you…anyone could see that…you were a good mom."

Looking up from her plate of fruit and cheeses as he repeats the statement, Emma stares at him unblinkingly, her eyes roaming over his sun-lined face, and taking in the sight of his weary appearance. She knows his words are meant to comfort her, that they are supposed to reassure her, but they actually do the opposite—highlighting the fact that she had barely had the chance to give the kid what he had rightfully deserved.

A home.

Decent parents.

Unyielding love.

She had abandoned him.

They both had.

Standing up without a word, she moves away from the table, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor nearly drowned out by the noise that surrounds them.

Walking away she doesn't look back, ignoring the sound of her name called out after her as she pushes away the slight feeling of nausea that rises in her throat.

* * *

There's a thin line of sweat trickling down from Emma's forehead and collecting above her upper lip, her arms and legs ache and her abdomen burns so hot she's not sure how much longer she can stand the heat. But even so, still, she pushes on, welcoming the hurt and pain as she huffs out a short breath and winces past her stinging and blurry gaze.

She counts quickly in her head, the numbers she rattles off keeping time with her vigorous routine.

One through fifty, she shifts positions and starts all over again.

She hasn't told anyone about her nightly workouts. The squats, push-ups, planks, and sit-ups she forces on herself when most of the candles have been snuffed and silence has enveloped the dark castle, are her own little secret. And really, there's no logical reason to tell anyone anyway. It doesn't matter what she does on her own time. Even so, she can't help but admit that gaining her strength back feels good; her muscles while protesting the actions also accept them gratefully, adjusting as best as they can to the once familiar practice. Her reflexes are coming back to her, her body feels stronger and if she squints hard enough she can just make out slight muscle definition in her too thin arms and legs.

She's almost ready.

Every morning she visits a tired and older looking David, waiting until after he's met with the war council and has been briefed about the events happening throughout the land before she goes to him. She seeks him out with the intent to inform him that she's prepared…she wants to train and fight and join the war. But instead of doing the duty she knows everyone is waiting for her to step up and take on, every morning she freezes, murmuring something they both know is a lie before making some lame excuse and fleeing the room.

And angry and tired and disgusted, every night she hazes herself hoping that she'll gain the courage to do what so many others are doing in her place.

_Fight._

One through fifty, she shifts positions and starts all over again.

* * *

Tristan comes back to Anna.

Emma watches their reunion from her place hiding on the stairs amongst a group of young children with smudged and dirty faces. Ducking behind their squirming bodies, she tunes out their giggles and whispers. Popping a sweet honeyed candy into her mouth and wordlessly handing one to the little girl next to her, she drinks in the sight of her young nurse's tears as she embraces the man from the kitchens with muffled sobs and a soft and tender smile.

The numbers coming back to the manor were much fewer than when they had left, the men and women returning with limps and marred and disfigured bodies had been shocking and disheartening—the gruesome sights only something Emma had experienced from a safe and unsure distance.

Apparently, even with their hits and losses the mission had been deemed a success—word throughout the manor spoke of the battles and hinted of their upper hand against the queen's dark and sinister army. Just earlier that day she had stumbled upon Mary Margaret and Ruby embracing with tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips as David and Hook shook hands and spoke quietly, their stances signaling both trust and respect. Ducking out of the room before she could be seen, she had ran back to the kitchens— the Captain Jones and werewolf comment Anna had made so many weeks ago finally clicking into place.

"Taking to spying now Swan?"

Her entire body goes stiff at the sound of his voice, and shooting her gaze up she feels her eyes widen and her pulse race as she watches the man who had briefly hi-jacked her thoughts begin to descend the stairs slowly. Behind her she can hear the muffled gasps of the older children, beside her she can feel the little girl who she'd shared her candy with shuffle slightly closer.

"Is that jealousy I detect in your eyes darling?"

Stiffening at his lilting and quite obviously teasing words, she raises a brow, trying to calm the screaming voices in her head and the pounding of her heart as he moves closer, lessening the space between them by another step or two.

"Who has captured your attention sweetheart? Is it the pretty little nurse or the strapping young soldier…surely it can't be both."

His eyes hold light amusement, but she can see a glimmer of curiosity behind his humored stare, and narrowing her gaze, she hands over the rest of her candy to the small child next to her and rises quickly, shooting him a withering glare as she makes a move to brush past him.

"Emma…" he reaches out with his good hand, lightly placing his fingers on her arm as she attempts to pass him by—his voice is soft and smooth and holds the slightest hint of desperation.

"Don't touch me." She whispers the words, her tone acidic and sharp as she pulls away from him quickly—unchecked fury courses through her fast as her eyes find his in the dim light of the narrowed staircase. It's the first time they've spoken since the night he had tried to pull her from her dazed and depressed state— she'd been careful about avoiding him, wary of another encounter in the too crowded manor. Part of her wishes she could forgive him for forcing her to awareness, for triggering something inside of her, for making her realize she was failing Henry again...

But she can't.

She's desperate for something,_ anything_ to hang onto...even if it's her misplaced anger.

"I told you to stay away from me." She hisses through clenched teeth that nearly grind with the effort. "I meant it."

And pushing past him, briefly aware that _he's letting_ _her go_, she ignores the feeling of self-loathing that slowly simmers up through her veins and instead grasps onto the sliver of contempt that resides deep inside of her as she quickly makes her way back to her room.

It takes every ounce of strength she posses not to break out into a full out sprint.

And God, she still hates him.

* * *

She feels comfortably familiar with most of the sprawling manor's crowded grounds. The hustle and bustle throughout the seemingly endless property has provided her with some form of consistent routine and much needed calmness. Walking around aimlessly is a habit she's come to secretly enjoy.

The large estate's lands resembles a small village with animals running free, new huts and tents popping up nearly everyday and people lingering at almost every corner—merchants, healers, soldiers, men, women, and children.

It's a guarded sanctuary…and even though it's been deemed safe—protected by the cloaking spells provided to them by the fairies—Emma can feel the thick sense of apprehension that clouds the air as anxiety rises with news of the kicked up war.

Regina is making her move.

Shuffling through the dirt, Emma moves towards the far end of the property, the large castle fading away as she makes her way to the camps set up behind it. She's curious about the side of the war she's only ever heard about and seen from afar but has yet to experience first-hand. And moving further into the encampment, passing by the loitering people and the groups of children that have gathered outside the different huts, Emma's eyes focus and zero in on the large tent that is clearly marked as the healers area.

The injured, sick, and dying.

Those most affected by the war.

Unwilling to give herself a chance to over think it, she quickly walks towards it, keeping her head lowered, and her eyes on the dirt at her feet as she tries to avoid being recognized.

She's not prepared for the sight that greets her when she makes her way inside.

There are injured bodies everywhere—some laying on too small cots, some sitting on the muddy ground; others stand in groups with bandages and bruises covering different body parts as they wait to be seen. Faint moans filter to her ears, drowned out only by the sounds of quiet crying and screams of pain.

It's both awful and eye-opening.

Her gaze takes everything in—the blood, the missing limbs, the bodies covered in sheets—and she's sure if it weren't already shattered, her heart would crack and break. Dimly she notices when something she tentatively identifies as firm resolve grows stronger inside of her and slowly clicks into place as the awful sights forever implant themselves into her somewhat chaotic brain.

_This is wrong._

"You one of my new girls?"

Emma turns around at the sound of the slightly raspy voice, her eyes falling on a short middle aged woman with salt and pepper colored hair that's pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her sharp gray eyes studying her closely, she places small hands on her generous hips, as she continues to stare.

"Excuse me?"

"They said they were sending more help…are you it?"

Realization dawns on her slowly and shaking her head, Emma looks away from the older woman's penetrating stare—the beginnings of embarrassment laced guilt creeping up on her. "Oh. No—no…I don't, I don't know anything about medicine or…I mean I was just…"

"You got two working hands?"

"Excuse me?"

The woman sighs, her eyes shooting behind her as someone barks for assistance and a pained shout roars throughout the tent as the smell of blood and sweat abruptly grows stronger—everything around them seemingly amplifying suddenly.

She feels sick.

"Your hands…they work alright?"

Confused, slightly put off and more than a little upset by virtually everything, Emma glances at her hands, her mouth dipping down into a tight frown as she considers the woman's words.

"I…um yes, yes, they're fine."

"You'll do then…follow me."

She isn't given a chance to answer as a basket of cloths and bottles filled with unknown liquids are thrust into her hands and the woman is walking away, leaving Emma with no choice but to follow in her wake.

* * *

Her name is Evvie and she's a skilled healer—she has a way with herbs, a head for mixing potions, and a steady hand for stitching.

Emma is nearly in awe of the way she works; she's efficient with a no-nonsense attitude, but her touch is gentle and when a patient needs it, her words are kind. At first they stick to superficial wounds, patching up broken and battered skin here and there, before moving on to the more gory and serious injuries when help is lacking. It takes nearly every bit of control Emma has inside of her not to bend over and empty the contents of her stomach when a young man is brought to them with his insides nearly spilling out and a deep bloody gash slashed across his upper thigh—the open wound is turning green, the effects of some unknown poison. Even after the fairies are called in and he's placed under a sleeping spell to relieve his pain, his fate looks grim—the color of his skin and the unevenness of his breathing hints that he might not last the night.

Seeing all the injuries, the hurt and death so close to her that she's only an arm's length from touching it, she feels something begin to bend inside of her, threatening to break, as memories of Henry's fatal wound taunt her cruelly.

_No._

Evvie seems to sense the struggle going on within her; but instead of catering to it, she keeps her busy, snapping out orders and running her all over the place as more beds fill up and more patients filter in. It's exactly what she needs. Suddenly, desperate to help, the sounds of Henry's fading breaths whispering in her ears, Emma sticks by her side, handing her the instruments and tools she describes and watching as she competently works.

It's a sight to behold, watching the healers and observing the way they mend and fix. And she's hit again, somewhat harshly, with a wave of guilt for her lack of significant contributions to the war effort.

_It's almost time._

Now though, she does what she can. Aside from merely being an errand girl, every once in awhile, when needed, she whispers a few soothing words, or lends a hand for squeezing. But mostly, because she knows she has nothing else to offer, she just stays in Evvie's shadow—listening to orders while giving her her space, still both amazed and horrified by what she sees.

"You been to battle yet?" Evvie's glasses sit low on her nose and she's perched on the edge of a chair, rubbing some sort of salve onto an open wound as the young girl in front of her gasps in pain.

"I…no..no I haven't."

A dark brow rises high on her forehead, but Evvie say nothing else, her focus back on the whimpering patient in front of her—the girls eyes are bright with fever, her cheeks flushed with hurt. It doesn't take long before she slips away into a fitful sleep, aided by a few crushed up berries and a thickly laced potion...she whimpers even in slumber.

_Wrong._

_So very wrong._

"What happened to them…where are they coming from?" Emma whispers the question, her features twisting into a wince as the girl moans and turns her head slightly. The side of her face is dirty, bloody, and purple—fresh bruises and bleeding cuts are scattered across her skin.

"A small group of dark soldiers wandered west of here, too close to us if you ask me, how they got this far without setting any alarms off is beyond my knowledge. They attacked a small camp stationed about twenty miles outside of our walls…they were defenseless…unprepared. These are the survivors."

"Survivors?"

"There weren't many."

* * *

She leaves the tent as the sun is dipping behind the trees and the night chill is settling over the land. Her hands are stained red, her hair, damp and heavy, is coming out of its braid, and her skirt is dirty and torn.

She's exhausted.

And still, she feels as if she hasn't done enough.

As she's making a quick exit, Evvie walking closely by her side, following her up to the castle to gather some food and look for more dressings, she pauses when out of the corner of her eyes she sees Hook as he suddenly steps out of a large hut—a redhead with a busty chest, a catlike smile, and a long sword tucked to her side following closely behind him. His shirt is untucked from his pants, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his cheeks are somewhat flushed and it's painfully obvious that the woman next to him looks thoroughly pleased.

It shouldn't surprise her so much.

With death and destruction all around them, it shouldn't shock the hell out of her that he's still thinking only with his dick—the suggestive comments he had thrown at her during her first trip to the Enchanted Forest, in Storybrooke, and then eventually in Neverland suddenly drag their way to the forefront of her brain.

And goddamn it, she hates him, despises him, loathes him...

So it shouldn't fucking bother her to see him after being so clearly satisfied.

_But it does._

Their eyes locking over the crowds of people between him, he appears to barely pay any attention to the redhead as she saddles up to him and purrs something into his ear. Instead he narrows his eyes and allows his gaze to sweep over her as he takes in the sight of Emma's frazzled and mussed up state—his body lurching forward as if he means to take a step in her direction, before abruptly pausing and reconsidering. He's isn't being subtle. The woman next to him has taken notice of his diverted focus and her gaze follows his slowly, her painted lips quirking up into a tiny smirk as she takes in the sight of her tired and worn figure—shifting closer to Hook, she levels Emma with a somewhat mocking stare.

_Mine. _

Her body language all but shouts it.

And bristling to attention at the defiant action, Emma turns suddenly, noticing with slight irritation the questions that glimmer in Evvie's eyes as she takes in the tense and obvious moment between herself and the infamous Captain.

_She still hates him._

* * *

The sun is bright, the air is crisp, the sky shines a brilliant and vibrant blue. The almost bare trees sway in the gentle wind and tiny animals scurry around the grounds preparing for the impending winter's harsh wrath.

The backdrop is nearly breathtaking and as Emma stands at the window of the great hall for a moment, taking in the stunning beauty of the world before her, she allows herself a moment of brief serenity. It seems so wrong that everything should look so peaceful and calm and _normal_ when miles away people are dying while Regina sits on her fat throne plotting her revenge and seeking vengeance.

At the sound of footsteps growing louder behind her, Emma turns and watches as Mary Margaret and David make their way towards her, their expressions gentling from grim to soft when they see her waiting.

_It's time._

Stepping forward Emma tries to pretend that Hook isn't lingering behind them; irritated that he's there, annoyed by how much her parents obviously trust him, and curious about his willingness to serve them.

It doesn't matter.

_He's_ not the reason she's here.

"I'm ready." She says softly as they draw even nearer, her eyes drifting to the floor for a moment before flitting back up to study their faces.

Mary Margaret's eyes are wide and flickering behind her shock—realization, relief, and terror, shines back at her. David seems a bit more slow on the draw; he stares at her curiously, confusion marring his features, as he steps towards her once, a tiny reassuring smile gracing his lips. And Hook…Hook she ignores all together, refusing to meet the heat and scrutiny of his unyielding blue gaze.

Clearing her throat and clasping her hands behind her back, she raises her chin, and levels her stare, needing to say it out loud before anyone tries to interrupt her. "I'm ready…to do what…what Henry would have wanted. I'm ready to train…to fight." Letting her words sink in slowly, she ignores the fear in their eyes and instead focuses on the acceptance that follows. "I'm ready to go to war."

* * *

_T**hat's the end of Part 1.**_

**_*fade to black*_**

**_just kidding..._**

**_Part 2 will bring more Hook/Emma interaction as well as a lot more familiar faces and a ton more action...also bad-ass Emma will definitely be making a comeback. I mean I know I want her out of the kitchens and in the field...am i right!?  
_**

**_Caution—again this story will contain violent themes. It's a war fic. It will also contain sexual themes both consensual and non-consensual. I promise the only things I will be really detailed about is the consensual sex. _**

**_But again...it's a war times fic._**

**_Please review. I'd love to know what you think...seriously PLEASE. I'm so nervous about this fic and how it'll be received!  
_**

**_Expect 2 more parts each about 15,000 words long._**

**_I know this style of writing is jumpy and different...but it's really helping with my writers block and I really enjoy writing an Always style story once again._**


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